Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(126)

“In the end,” Redman agreed. “In the end. And it is good.”

“It is good.”

Lark looked from her father to her friend. Suddenly her glad smile fell and tears sprang to her eyes. “You are leaving?” she asked.

Foxbrush, startled, looked down at her. He realized, though he had not known it himself, that she was right. “I . . . I am,” he said quietly. “I must.”

“But—” Lark broke off, bowing her head and fighting back the tears. “I thought you’d stay with us awhile. I thought I’d grow up, and then we would marry, and I’d teach you how to use the blow darts, and . . .” She stopped and quickly rubbed her eyes. “No. You must go. I understand.”

Then Foxbrush knelt and held her tight, long enough to seal the memory of that embrace in both their hearts. He stood at last, bowed to the Eldest, clasped hands with her husband, and gave each of the little redheaded children a solemn kiss upon the brow.

“Follow your Path with courage, Prince Foxbrush,” said Redman.

Foxbrush turned and started down the hill, his feet for the last time treading that dirt roadway as the eastern sunlight cast his shadow long.

“Don’t forget the wasps!” Lark called behind him.

“I won’t,” he assured her.

Another few paces, then:

“Clusters of six figs at least, and you need to replenish them!”

“I’ll remember,” said Foxbrush over his shoulder.

“Peel them at the stem, or you’ll get juice on your fingers!”

Foxbrush stopped and looked one last time at the family above, the Eldest and her husband standing with their arms around the daughter who was crying silently.

“Don’t worry, Lark,” Foxbrush said, feeling tears of his own on his cheeks. “I’ll never forget you.”



Daylily could not decide whether she stood in the Wood Between or the Near World. The sheltering trees overhung her head, and they were so thick that even the morning sunlight could not pierce through. She looked out from them to the village and the hill, and she watched Foxbrush as he made his good-byes.

Behind her, she felt the presence of the Prince of Farthestshore. But she dared not turn to face him.

“I never forget a promise!” Nidawi was saying, perhaps a little defensively. She stood with her arms crossed, the lights of her children hovering around her head. “But . . . but I don’t see why I have to do anything just now. A century or two won’t hurt anything.”

“You forget the effects of time on mortals, Nidawi,” said the Prince, his voice stern. “You must honor your promise to the King of Here and There.”

“Yes, but,” Nidawi whined, her pretty eyes lavender with pleading, “I’m not even certain who the King of Here and There is! He”—with a thumb jerk toward Foxbrush, approaching from a distance—“is the one who’ll wear the crown and all, but that one”—with another jerk at Daylily, standing quietly to one side—“claims to have actually killed my enemy. It’s all most perplexing!”

The Prince of Farthestshore smiled, but his voice was no less stern when he said, “Yours is not to reason the wherefores and hithertos. Yours is to honor your promise. Your enemy is dead. Now protect this nation from further Faerie invasion.”

Nidawi looked for a moment as though she would like to protest. Then, with a sigh, she sank into the form of a child and dashed off, disappearing into the jungle. But her voice carried back for some time, calling, “Beasts! Beasts! Faeries of the Far! To me, to me, to me!”


“Well, that should keep her occupied and, I do hope, out of trouble,” said Poet Eanrin, who stood with his back against a tree, watching all with a bored expression that belied the beating of his heart.

The Prince of Farthestshore turned to him then. “My brother,” he said, “it has been some time since last we spoke. Will you walk with me?”

If Eanrin had been in his cat’s form, his ears would have flattened. But he shrugged coolly enough and fell into pace beside his Lord. They walked together into the shadows, disappearing behind green leaves and vines. Daylily found herself alone. She wondered what the Prince might say to the cat-man. She wondered if he would speak to her. She could not say whether she desired or dreaded such an exchange.

Foxbrush drew nearer, and Daylily pulled herself upright and began, out of habit, to school her face into the cold, calm mask she had worn for so long. But the wolf inside her shook her head, and she thought, Whom do I deceive but myself?

She would not play the fool to her own games. Not anymore.

So when Foxbrush approached the welcoming shade of the jungle, his ruined hands hidden behind his back, she smiled. The sight of her smile took him aback, and he stopped dead in his tracks, staring. His face, behind the beard, twisted into a variety of expressions, none of which Daylily could read, none of them an answering smile.

Suddenly the Prince of Farthestshore stood before them, and they forgot each other and their fears in the far greater fear of his presence. For he was unlike anything they knew, and they could not, with mortal eyes, quite perceive him, not in a bodily form. But he stood there, more real than real, and they felt the brightness of his gaze upon them.

“Come,” he said, and where he went, they followed.